


The gown

by kate_the_reader



Series: Godfrey [3]
Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Discussions of sexuality, Explicit in later chapters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12430485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: “Did you wish to be a woman?”Godfrey tries to explain the complexities of his life and his desires to James.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [A Place without Judgment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10854528/chapters/24102522). James and William (as Godfrey is called in this series) are still at the inn in New York.
> 
> Thanks as ever, to chasingriver, for insightful help.

“Did you wish to be a woman?”

The question takes him by surprise. James has never before commented on the William he found at the molly house: shocked, trembling in terror; the William he visited there, and coerced, and teased — and mocked. And protected and saved and took into exile. 

He was there, if not in the room, when William took off his gown; and he saw when he gave it up. He acknowledged it, but he has never referred to it before.

“When you lived in that house. Did you wish to be a woman?”

How can he explain to James the complexities of his desires and of his life before it was upended by James himself crashing back into it with all his chaos and need? Why is James asking now? Now, as they sit in a chilly room in an inn in a foreign land, never to see London again. James is staring into the inadequate fire, slumped in a hard wooden armchair. He looks up again, straight at William. It is impossible to escape his inquiry.

“I think you understand the desire to hide from … the demands of the world?” James’ demons, his nightmares, the memories that pluck at his mind and steal his sleep, have eased, now that William can be there with him in the dark, but they have not been driven off entirely. They do not speak of the past, of either of their pasts, but William knows there are things there that James hides very deep. Things he may need properly to tell. If William gives him something, perhaps he will be able to speak in his turn?

James grunts his agreement, wordlessly eloquent.

“My whole life, I felt I was hiding. I had to hide. I knew, even before I went to Addiscombe … I knew I was different. Before, at home, with the girls and Mama, I did not understand, truly, how different. But there, with all those boys, I knew then.”

He has lowered his eyes, to avoid James’ intense scrutiny, to look backwards, into the past. He looks up again now, feeling James’ brooding gaze on him as he so often does, as he did as a boy at school, in the dining hall, in the great hall. “And I knew that I must hide. Always hide.”

“Always hide,” echoes James, almost to himself.

“And you must know that hiding is difficult. Always hiding in plain sight … is difficult. Always holding oneself so tightly.” His fingers have found a thread in his breeches to pluck at. “It is _exhausting_.” He glances back up. James’ eyes are on him still. “It was a relief not to have to hide.”

“But why as a woman?”

He has never had to speak of this before. Why as a woman. 

“When I first found a place … a place without judgment, I had no gown. But as time went on, I found I did not wish only to visit. I wished to live there. In safety and freedom.”

“Freedom? Hidden there was hardly free.”

“It was free of the judgment of the world. That was freedom enough.” 

James nods. “Yes.”

“Those of us who lived there, we formed our own society. It was not a society of men.”

“But you _are_ a man. I am a man.”

James had not always called him that. He himself is undoubtedly a man, sprawled negligently in the armchair, strong thighs filling his breeches, one foot tipped on its side, flexing his knee. All of which William could touch. Could lean forward and place his hand upon. He does not, though.

“But society … does not allow … it has no place for a house of men like me. Women may live like that. And entertain men. But men do not. If I wished to live there, to live in a place where I did not have to hide every minute of every day, I could do that, in a gown.”

“What does it feel like? To put on a gown?”

“It felt like freedom. After a day in the committee room, in the office, listening, recording, but never really seen, it felt like freedom.”

James smiles. “Taking off one’s breeches does feel like freedom,” he says. It is not said in a lascivious manner. “I always felt that too.” 

William knows he has not answered James’ original question — did he wish to be a woman? — but he has answered as much as he can, for now. He stands up and steps over to James’ chair, bends and touches his cheek. James takes hold of his wrist, keeps his hand there, against his face. It is hard to believe that he may do this now, in the safety of this room, although they have to be ever vigilant, even here. They are away from their own society, but life is not so different here. It may be another country, but it is not another world, after all. It’s not the wilderness, a place beyond rules.

The place without judgment that James promised is not a whole world. It is one room, in truth. It was the ship, and then only because the others were outlaws too, who dared not defy James. Now it is one room, the room where they are together. It is enough. For now.


	2. Chapter 2

He did not answer James’ question, and now he cannot stop thinking about it. James has gone out and William is alone in the room.

Did he wish to be a woman? Does he still?

He recalls the first time he put on women’s clothes. 

The gown was gaudy, not to his taste, lent to him by one of the others. A flaming red.

The gown had to be stepped into. It had to be fastened up the back with many, many buttons. He needed assistance. He stood before the glass and watched himself be transformed.

And then he walked across the room in it, the heavy folds swishing around his legs, swaying as he moved, the bodice tight across his chest, straining on his shoulders, the close-fitting sleeves constricting his movement. When he sat in a chair, his legs were loose and free under it, the way it slid across his knees was unlike anything he’d felt in clothes before. And he recalls the way his hands looked, emerging from the sleeves, folded in his lap. The low neckline exposing the bones of his chest in a way no man’s ever were — oh! He recalls that! How he had raised his hand and traced his collarbones, observing in the glass. Smiling uncertainly at his image.

His entire demeanour altered by a garment. His entire sense of himself.

When he told James why he lived at the house, in women’s clothes, he spoke of freedom. The freedom of not hiding himself and his desires. And he also spoke of safety. The safety of being hidden from the hostile gaze of the world. The safety of having a place to hide, even if hiding was also a torture.

The gown, the wig, the paint were their own sort of shelter.

A shelter he gave up on the ship when he gained a position in their small society. When James insisted he take his place in that company of men. When James forced the others to accept William as a man with a place, no longer in the shadows, watching, but in the open, taking action.

There, the gown, rather than a shelter and a freedom, was a hindrance that would have stopped him taking a place among the men, hauling on a rope, climbing the ratlines, going out upon the yard.

So he gave it up, and gave it away and waited for James, until finally James could come to him. James, whom he has loved since he was a boy, since they were both boys. Who has finally allowed himself to accept that love — after William gave up the gown. James, who found out his secret and pursued him and coerced him and, yes, _mocked_ him at the house. James, who took pains to send him to safety, in a gown and a wig, and then made a place for him on the ship. A place that he could not take up while he sheltered in the gown.

Now he wonders: Did he give it up freely, or was he forced out of it?

Did he wish to be a woman? Does he still? 

He knows very little of women, has had almost nothing of their society since he was sent away to school, away from Mama and the girls into a world of boys and men. Lorna and Pearl are the only women with whom he has had any real conversation in the course of his adult life. The madam at the house hardly spoke to those who lived there; may indeed have held them in contempt, if he is honest. And Lorna and Pearl are hardly representatives of women in general. An actress and a prostitute. A scheming widow and a lost girl. An adventuress and a seamstress. 

At the house, there were those who were louder and bawdier than any of the men who visited, emboldened, perhaps, by silk and paint; there were others who were softer, quieter, apparently hoping not to draw attention, but simply to live unremarked. Some were kind, and some had been hardened by life. They were his friends and confidantes and he has not really stopped to think of what he has given up. What he has lost, his world narrowed now to one room and one man.

James had told him, on the ship, not to be afraid of the future. Has shown him, here on land, kindness and consideration. Has given himself to William in ways no man, no person, has ever done. But yet, it is as James said, weeks ago — he gave up a world in which he had a place, of sorts, and friends, for a different place in the company of men on board ship. And now that world is gone, the company about to be broken up, and he faces the unknown, the unknowable, with James and James alone. 

They have both given up much. James has also given up some of his sense of himself, perhaps. William has known his own desires since boyhood. Has James understood his?

And still he has not answered: Did he wish to be a woman? Does he still?

But he does know this: He has always wanted James, and whatever it has cost, it was worth the price. And it seems James wants him, in his way.

The day has dimmed as he sat lost in thought. The small fire has burned down and the room is even colder than it was. It’s somehow damper here than it was at sea.

There is the sound of boots on the stairs, and this time, they come to the door and then James is there, his coat damp, his hat in his hand. William stands and crosses the room to him, holds out his hand to take the hat.

“Fuck, it’s cold here!” says James, and then, “Hello, Billy.” His face softens and he touches the back of his cold hand to William’s cheek.

William curls his hand round James’ wrist. “James,” he says, “thank god you’re back.”

“Why? What is wrong? Have you been disturbed?”

“No, no! Nothing like that. Just alone with my thoughts.” He smiles to reassure James and turns away to hang up his hat. “Let me make up the fire.” He kneels at the hearth to get it blazing again. James sits in the armchair and bends to take off his boots. William’s memory is tugged back to school, where they were often alone and almost domestic like this.

“What were you thinking of?” says James, leaning forward to warm his hands as the flames leap up again.

“Of your question.”

“Oh. I did not mean to discomfort you.”

“At the house, you called me half a man.”

“I’m a brute. I did not know you, then. I judged … too quickly. Harshly. Foolishly.”

“If I had not taken off the gown, on the ship ...” He is not looking at James, it’s easier to look into the fire, still kneeling at the hearth under the guise of feeding it more fuel. “What then? Would you still have—?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, Billy.”

“I gave it up when you asked me to.” His voice has dropped almost to a whisper and James leans even closer. “I knew I could not join the company on the Good Hope in it. I don’t know that I will never want it again.” He risks a glance at James, who is staring into the flames, frowning. “I may, James.” He might have said too much. He turns towards James and lays a hand on his knee. James covers it with his, the bent finger curled under as always. He bows his head, unable to keep looking at James.

“I don’t know, Billy.” James places his other hand on William’s bent head, tentatively. “I cannot say, now.”

“Yes. I know. Forgive me.” He sits back on his heels, dislodging James’ hand, and stands, straightening his clothes, dark and unobtrusive. 

He crosses to the window and looks out. Night has fallen, there is nothing to see. At the fireside, James’ face is illuminated by the flames and William is struck anew by his troubled beauty.

Since the ship, since the first night here in a new land, James has accepted William’s caresses. More than accepted. He gets up now and comes to stand behind William, looking out into the dark. He presses up close and puts his hand on the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, pushing up, cradling the back of his skull. William leans into the touch, so intimate, so tender.

“You have undone me, Billy. I hardly know myself. I hardly know myself.”

The room is dim, it is not likely anyone could see in from the street, but standing here in the window feels terribly exposed. William turns to James and takes a step to move them back into the shadows.

“Nor I,” he says, laying his forehead against James’, bringing their mouths together. James gasps and tips his head slightly back, accepting the kiss.

This is a new thing, for William. That a man such as James does not seek to dominate always, that he bows to William’s touch. No one who has ever met James outside this room would recognise the man William knows. The man James has allowed him to see.


	3. Chapter 3

Thinking about his own desires has not answered James’ question. But he has a question too: does James wish William were a woman?

He has accepted William’s caresses — his hand, and his mouth — and has given in return what he was asked for — his hand. He seemed surprised that was all William wanted, but he has not asked for, nor attempted to take, more.

Is it simply fear of discovery in a room with walls that are too thin, surrounded by too many eyes, too many ears? They are not known here, and there is a safety in strangers. He does not care for reputation, and James does not seem to care for anything, but he has need of reputation, if he is to gain what he embarked on this scheme for. The letter of introduction obtained from Colonnade cannot be used by a man in moral disgrace. Is that what holds James back? Fear of society’s censure? He has never seemed to fear it before. His sister … that had been … he has not explained, merely hinted, but William knows the roots of that illicit liaison lay deep in James’ childhood. 

“Ring for water.” James startles William out of his thoughts. 

“What?”

“Do you not wish to wash? Before bed? Ring for water.”

He walks to the door. The sound of it closing brings William back into himself.

James has taken another room, of course, but he has only gone to it before dawn. Now, is he leaving William? Has their talk given him a disgust he did not know before?

So few nights, and already his body is necessary to William, known to his fingers, to his mouth, to his tongue. Each raised scar — so shocking! Each band of ink an intriguing mystery that James may one day explain. 

He does as James said and rings the bell. Hot water is a luxury he had to go without on board ship and it is a relief to be able to bathe again. 

He adds wood to the fire as he waits for the servant to return. This too is a wonderful luxury. There is a knock. “Water, sir” and the man walks in with the heavy, steaming can. William is already undoing his neckcloth as the man sets it down and leaves. He pulls off his shirt and pours water into the basin. The heat is welcome, and to be clean even more so. 

The door opens as he runs the wet washcloth down his chest. The sudden draught makes him shiver. James walks in, still fully dressed, and comes up behind him. Their eyes meet in the small glass over the wash stand and James’ clothes brush against his bare skin as he steps closer and drops his mouth to William’s shoulder, his beard scratching. William is unused to this scrutiny, this intimacy; he tries not to flinch under it. James reaches for the cloth, dips it in the hot water again and wipes it across William’s chest, where it feels as if his heart is tripping far too fast. Their eyes are no longer locked in the glass. William is looking at James’ hand, at his other hand, curling around his hip. A thin stream of water runs from the cloth down into his breeches and he shivers again. A small noise of disatisfaction escapes James and he drops the cloth in the basin. His hands come up to William’s shoulders and he pushes to turn him, frowning. William turns to face him and James’ hands are on the fastening of his breeches. “Take them off,” he says, the first words either of them has spoken since he returned to the room. His voice is rough. He takes a step back. 

William kneels to unfasten his shoes, his breeches buckles. Steps out of his shoes, pushes his breeches down, lets them fall, bends to take off his stockings. James’ eyes are on him, but his face betrays little. When William is left in nothing but his drawers he grunts softly and gives a tiny nod: they must come off as well. William is panting slightly and he can feel the heat flushing his face, his chest. He pulls on the string and lets the drawers fall, closing his eyes against James’ scrutiny. But he is not ashamed, he is aroused.

James steps forward again, humming approval. His hands trail down William’s chest, brushing his nipples. William gasps and James huffs softly and steps even closer, the rough fabric of his breeches brushing against William’s cock, drawing another ragged gasp from him. James’ hands are on William’s hips, on his arse, and his breath is also hitching. William lifts his head, looks James in the eye and brings his hand to the back of his head, where his hair is short and coarse, leans forward and kisses him and now he can feel James’ heart also crashing in his chest and James brings a hand up, tangles it in his hair and he twitches his hips forward and if his mouth were not on William’s they would surely be heard.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs shocks him and he tries to pull away from James, but James crowds even closer and tugs at William’s hair. “Billy,” he growls. William is jostled against the wash stand and the water in the basin threatens to slop over the edge, cold and forgotten in their haste and heat. 

“James,” he whispers and he can hear the urgency in his voice. “James!” and he catches James’ hand in his own and tugs him towards the bed, away from the door. _Did James secure it?_ He sits on the bed and reaches for James’ clothes, the fastenings of his breeches, the hem of his shirt, clumsy in his need, and James is also trying to get them off and their hands tangle together but finally James pulls his shirt off and William pushes his breeches down and his drawers and James leans forward, pressing William into the bed, his marked chest heaving, and at last, William can get his hands on his skin.

He runs his hands over James’ chest, across the ink, the raised lines, and the heat and dirty musk of him threaten to overwhelm him and he can’t quite catch his breath and James’ mouth is on his again and his hands are on William’s shoulders, pressing him into the bed.

James stands up — “Fuck!” — and sits on the bed and bends to pull off his boots, his stockings, his breeches, his drawers and William reaches out his hand and trails it down James’ bent back, over the ink there, and James turns and looks over his shoulder and his eyes are dark, but they are not mad, he has not gone away into his head, he is here. “Billy,” he says, soft, tender, “Christ, Billy.” And William can only smile and nod and shift backwards on the bed and James turns to him and then he is over him again, on his knees on the bed, caging him in, and William digs his heels into the mattress, bringing his knees up against James’ arse and he falls forwards and then their cocks are grinding together and William’s hips are twitching up to meet James’ and his back is arching and James grabs his hand and brings both their hands to their cocks and drags them through the slickness already there and his hand is inside James’ bigger hand and their fingers are twined together and he can feel the heat of both of them and the slickness and they drag their hands together and sound of their hands on skin joins their harsh panting breaths and his hips arch up again and James’ twitch forward and … his climax surprises him. He is biting his knuckle to muffle his cry as his body jerks and he spills over their hands and across his belly.

It’s too soon. 

Everything about James overwhelms him, his bulk, his voice, his hands, his scent, his eyes. But it seems William does not have this effect on James. It will end and he will be abandoned here, cast aside. He is not, after all, what James truly wants. He is merely convenient, present, willing.

He turns his face away and blinks the tears from his eyes, because James is here now and he needs William to give him release.

“Billy?” says James. He has stopped moving also, interrupted.

“I’m sorry, James.” He can barely make his voice audible. His hand is still trapped inside James’ around his softening cock and James’ still hard cock. He pushes at James to get him off him, so he can offer his mouth. Or does he want more?

James shifts to the side, releasing both their cocks, and William sits up. 

“What can I …? What do you want from me? My mouth? Or … do you want to fuck me?” His stomach clenches. He can, he will give James this, but he had not thought it would be so soon. Or like this, when he is suffused with shame at his inadequacy. He can’t help it, tears spill over again and he averts his face from James. 

“What?” says James. “No. Not … now. Damn Billy, I was so close. I’ll just …”

“No. Let me do that much.”

He forces himself to look at James, who is frowning. In puzzlement, not anger, it seems.

“Ah, Billy,” he says, “Just give me your hand again.” 

So he does, and James is soon hard and panting again and then it is over and William rolls to face the wall. He wishes James would get up and go to his own room and leave William alone with his shame. 

The bed shifts as he does get up, but he returns with the washcloth. 

“Here,” he says. “The water’s gone cold, but …” He places a hand on William’s shoulder and tugs and he is obliged to roll on to his back. He reaches for the cloth, but James keeps it and cleans William’s belly and thighs, and his hands. William does not look at him. But he watches him walk back to the wash stand, his strong back and powerful legs marked with wide black bands, outlined by the dim red glow of the dying fire. He expects James to dress and leave. But he does not, merely tosses the cloth into the basin, walks to the hearth to stir the embers. He pours brandy from the bottle on the mantel and brings the glass to William. He’d rather have water, but he accepts the spirit and sips it. James takes the glass from his hand and drains it, and gets into the bed. William turns his face to the wall again, exhausted. A long moment passes. It seems James has fallen asleep.

Then: “What is wrong, Billy?” 

“I do not please you. I am not a woman, yet I am womanish. I do not please you.”

James grunts and is silent again.

“Do _you_ wish I were a woman?” He has said it. He feels almost sick with nerves, but he has said it. James doesn’t respond for so long that William is certain this time he has fallen asleep.

“I have never before been … with a man. I had never thought of it. And yet … and yet, when I saw you … when you confessed that you … that you … I did wonder. But I was focused on my plan and I needed you to do what I asked you. And you did, even though you were terrified. And then you escaped their clutches. And on the ship, you showed another side. You were stronger than I had thought. You became necessary to me. You drove away the ghosts. You gave me rest.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, I do not wish you were a woman. Women have been only pain, only trouble, to me. _You_ have not answered me though. Do you wish you were?”

“Some things would have been easier. Many things! Perhaps I did wish that, once. Not now, I think. Now I can take my place.”

He is still turned away from James. Now he feels the bed shift and James rolls towards him, and with a hand on his hip, drags William against himself. It is like that freezing night in the great hall at Addiscombe! He gasps at the feel of James’ cock against his arse. James laughs softly.

“Yes,” he says, his beard scratching the back of William’s neck. “I do want to. But not tonight. You are tired.” 

He spreads his hand, with its crooked finger, low on William’s belly. William lies awake for what feels like hours. He feels James’ hand go slack with sleep, and then he tangles their fingers together. 


	4. Chapter 4

He half wakes when James gets out of the bed in the dark before dawn and pulls on his clothes haphazardly. He pats awkwardly at William’s shoulder before leaving quietly, carrying his boots.

The small bed should be more comfortable without his bulk, but it is not.

William wakes again when it is light and noises float in from outside the window, from the rest of the house. There is a tap at his door and the servant calls: “Your water.” William pulls on his drawers and shirt before opening the door. The man brings in a can of hot water and removes the one from the night before. He washes, properly, and is almost dressed when James walks in. He sits before the cold fireplace and watches William tie his neckcloth.

“I taught you to do that.” William’s fingers stop on the knot. He has never forgotten that first morning, but it is almost incredible that James recalls it.

“And much else,” he says, turning away to pick up his waistcoat.

“You will come out with me today?”

“Of course. If you want.”

“Billy.” There is reproof in his tone.

“Do you have business?”

“No. A walk. A coffee house.”

James doesn’t need his company, he merely wants it.

The air outside is fresh and cool, the sunshine beginning to be warm. They walk away from the harbour, into a street of shops. It seems James has been here before, because he goes to the door of a tailor shop and steps in.

There are bolts of sober fabric on shelves and two men sitting stitching. They look up as the door opens, but soon return to their work. Another man stands behind a counter.

“I’ve come for—”

“Ah yes, sir,” says the shopkeeper. “It’s ready, just today.” He hands James a parcel and accepts his money. 

“Thank you,” says James. He has said nothing to William about this mystifying errand. They leave the shop and walk on. The streets are busy and people here look not so different from Londoners. 

James pushes open the door of a coffee house and they enter the room, full of men and talk — and tobacco smoke. William has not smoked a pipe in what seems an age. 

Men turn to look at them as they enter, but soon go back to their conversations. From the snatches William can gather — and he is good at deciphering men talking in hushed tones — the talk seems about half of business and half of the news of war. They have been suspended in their own world these last weeks, and it has been easy to forget that England and America are at war, and they are traitors to the Crown, sailing under an American flag and selling the powder to them. Powder that has no doubt been used to kill English sailors. Thinking of James’ enterprise like that is not helpful, though. So he follows James in thinking of it as opposition primarily to the Company. And he has no doubt that Sir Stuart would have had him killed without compunction, had James not sent him to safety. 

In truth, James is all he cares about, politics be damned.

James chooses a table in a corner and calls for coffee and a pipe for each of them. When it all comes, the tobacco in a bowl next to the coffee pot, he fills one pipe and lights it, and passes it to William, reminding him strongly of that evening in his room — when James had given him his hand, and then slapped away his concern, his well-meant but perhaps clumsy advice, with cruel words. The look James gives him makes it seem he too recalls that evening. He has apologised, in his way, for his cruelty, so William must forgive him. It is not so easy to forget, however. 

The coffee is strong, better than that at the inn. James leans back in his chair and surveys the room with interest. William has his back to the crowd, but he listens and tries to file always snippets that may be worth something. The tobacco makes him light-headed, after weeks without, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to regain his equilibrium. When he opens them James’ heavy gaze is upon him, a palpable, familiar weight. “Shall we go back outside for some air now?” he says, faintly amused. William nods, grateful, he has also grown unused to such a hubbub of voices.

The bustle in the street is different from that indoors, a press of people going about their business, and they walk back to the inn in silence, James striding with his head down, the parcel under his arm.

William pauses at the door of his room; the one James has taken is up a further flight of stairs, but he shows no sign of going to it as William unlocks the door, standing instead daringly close. Anyone could come up the stairs and see them there; a shiver runs through him. James follows him in and flings himself into the armchair. The hearth has been swept and a new fire laid, but the day is not cold and he does not light it. Having nothing to do, he sits down too.

James leans forward and hands him the parcel. “Here, Billy.”

“For me?” James grunts, affirmative, and watches as he begins to untie the string. 

He opens the paper. Inside is a shirt. A fine white shirt, decorated with delicate embroidery. He looks up and meets James’ heavy gaze.

“I thought … I thought you might like something … fine.” He half smiles and then looks away, into the cold fireplace.

William strokes his fingers across the embroidered flowers, done in white silk. “James … this is …” he has to swallow, try to find his voice, “beautiful. Thank you.” Tears have sprung to his eyes.

“It’s not a gown, but …”

William stands up, holding the shirt. The paper flutters to the floor as he crosses the space to James and crouches before him. “Thank you.” The words are inadequate for the weight of all that he feels. James lifts his hand to William’s cheek, cups his jaw. William turns his face, mouth catching on the bent finger. “James,” he whispers.

“Billy.”


	5. Chapter 5

He is still in bed when James comes back to his room early the next morning, having left before dawn, as usual. The servant has not yet been in with the hot water. “James! You cannot be here when—”

“Godders!” says James, sharply, his old nickname, lately supplanted by the fonder ‘Billy’. He sits on the bed.

“What?”

“I won’t stay, only I wanted to say: wear the shirt. Please?”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“I have a meeting. I need you there, to listen. To help me listen.”

“And I must look very fine?”

“No one else will see, under your waistcoat and coat. But you will know. And I will. Wear it?”

He has wanted to put it on since he unwrapped it, but he hesitated to wear it merely for show, to display himself to James.

James gets up again and goes back out. Moments later the the servant taps on the door: “Your water, sir.”

He has finished washing when James returns again, his hair damp. His constant coming and going from this room is bound to be noticed. He hopes they will have left before it becomes a scandal. 

He is standing in his stockings and drawers, the shirt is laid out on the bed, and he runs his fingers over the fine white embroidery. How had James asked a tailor to do this? He himself is heedless of clothes, of what he wears, almost to the point of slovenliness. 

James comes up behind him, standing close as he so often does, and a shiver runs through William. James grunts and drops his chin to William’s shoulder, his beard scratching. “Put it on, Billy.” He steps back to give William room.

William picks up the shirt and slips it over his head. The fabric is smooth and cool. He turns towards James, whose eyes travel from his face downwards and back up. 

He grunts. “Very fine,” he says.

William feels a tentative smile on his face. “Yes?” he says, and steps over to the glass. The shirt fits him very well. He has no idea how James can have got this right, to instruct the tailors so well. He never ceases to surprise. The embroidered flowers do not stand out against the white cotton. He runs his fingers down them again, before turning back to the bed to finish dressing: breeches and then his high-buttoned waistcoat, sober and plain, which covers the shirt entirely.

“It is very fine,” he says and crosses to where James sits in the armchair before the cold hearth. He runs the back of his hand down James’ cheek. “Thank you.” James grunts and turns to look into the ashes, but his mouth pulls up in a half-smile.

No one can see James’ gift, hidden under his outer clothes, as they step out into the busy street. But William can feel it.

They walk away from the harbour, through the streets of shops. As they near the coffee house where they were the day before, James consults his watch. “We have time,” he says, and opens the door. He pauses, and waits for William to step through ahead of him. The place is as full and smoky as before, but it doesn't bother William as much. Heads turn, and some men have a look of recognition. William recognises some of them too.

James calls for coffee, but William shakes his head at the offer of a pipe, and they sit as before, William watching James watching the other patrons, while he tries to pick out threads of conversation: of business, of the war, gossip and the weather — commonplace topics. James’ face gives little away. He is good at schooling his features, smoking a pipe while he listens. He drains his cup and stands abruptly, pushing back his chair, but he waits for William before walking to the door.

Outside, he says: “Did you hear anything of interest?”

“I’m not certain, James. Perhaps some things will become clearer later.”

“Perhaps,” says James, setting off at a brisk pace. He has not told William where they are headed, or why. William is used to not being told the reasons for meetings he records. He is good at discerning them, though. James is not used to explaining his actions. And William is still not sure if he regards him as an equal. In this, at least.

They turn into a street lined with houses, evidently the homes of men of means, and James walks along looking up at the doors, counting the numbers, until halfway along he stops. “Here,” he says, and starts up the front steps. The house is built of brick, with a steep flight of steps from the street. 

James knocks firmly and they wait until it is opened by a servant. “Mr Harrington,” says James, brusquely.

“Who is calling?” asks the man.

“Delaney. I landed recently and I must consult him on a matter of importance.”

The servant nods and steps back. “Wait here please,” he says, when they have entered the hall, and walks away. James stands and stares at his feet, apparently not interested in his surroundings. William looks about, trying to get a sense of what manner of man they are visiting. The hall is dim and empty, aside from a hat rack and a table against the wall. There are no calling cards laid out. There are no pictures, no rug. An austere household. After some minutes the servant returns. “He can see you, Mr Delaney and Mr …?”

“Godfrey,” says James.

“Mr Godfrey. Follow me, please,” says the servant, returning the way he came. William waits for James to follow him first. He has brought his writing case and expects to be the secretary, unseen in the background, listening to all that is said and all that is unsaid.

The room they are shown into is a parlour being used as an office, with a fire in the grate and a desk in the window bay. The man at the desk rises when they enter and steps forward. He is short and rather stout, with thinning hair and an indoor air.

“Mr Delaney. Mr Godfrey,” he says. “Mr James Delaney? Jacob Harrington. I think I knew your father, would it have been, Mr Delaney?”

“Yes,” says James, making no attempt to be more forthcoming. “Mr Godfrey is my secretary,” he says. 

“Quite so,” says Harrington. “Will you sit down?” he says, gesturing to the chairs drawn up to the fire. James sits down, William waits for Harrington before taking the third chair, next to James and across from Harrington. He takes the small writing case from his coat pocket, but does not open it yet.

“Mr Delaney,” says Harrington, “I am not sure what I can do for you, sir. Our countries are at war.”

“I am no loyal subject of the Crown,” says James. “I sail under an American flag. I have a letter from Colonnade in the Azores, addressed to your president. I have been in the city some days and I need to meet with the president while I still have a crew to sail my ship to Washington.”

Harrington’s eyes narrow at the mention of Colonnade, but he doesn’t immediately answer, steepling his fingers and looking grave, forcing James to continue.

“I have a proposition to make that the president will find very … worthwhile.”

“Have you?” says Harrington.

“I can only discuss it in Washington, of course.”

“Of course.” Harrington falls silent once again, gazing into the fire. James has his head down, William cannot read his expression. At last, Harrington rouses himself. “And you need a letter of introduction from someone more closely … associated with President Madison than this … Colonnade?” he says, with an expression of mild distaste at the alias.

“If you would be so good,” says James, his voice clipped. William is not certain another would discern his mood, but he can. James hates this sort of dealing, speaking obliquely, asking for favours. Diplomacy is not for him, he is used to command.

“Well,” says Harrington, “for the sake of your father, whom I knew before our current … difficulties, I think I could do that.”

“Thank you,” says James, standing abruptly. William gets up too. “When may I come for it?”

“Oh,” Harrington laughs weakly, “business is very pressing. The day after tomorrow, I think. Yes, that is the earliest—”

“Very well,” James cuts him off, turning for the door. “Day after tomorrow. Good day.”

William inclines his head before following James, hoping to mollify Harrington a little.

“James!” he says as they descend the steps into the street again.

“What? Pompous ass! He could have written it right now. But no, he must make me wait, hat in hand. Fuck him!”

He’s striding so fast William almost has to skip to keep up. “James,” he says again, in a placating tone this time.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” says James, slowing slightly. “You know I hate this sort of thing.”

“Yes.” They walk in silence for some minutes. “How did you know he might help?”

“His name was in my father’s ledgers. I asked for him at the coffee house.”

When he had been out alone. Before he trusted William? 

“It seems you chose well. Though he intends to make you wait just to make a point, he seemed happy to help, even though you told him … so little.”

“My father was a powerful man, a respected man. Before he went mad.”

“I know. His name was frequently spoken in the Company committee room. Before …”

James grunts but says no more on the subject as they walk back towards their inn. It is near the dinner hour, reminding William that they have not eaten today. It is so long since his life was on an even keel, regular and dull. Full of people and yet empty. Now nothing is regular, or dull, and his life is narrowed to just James, and yet it is full. 

At the inn, James goes to mount the stairs, but William turns for the dining room. James grunts his assent and follows. After dinner, he calls for port and pours for William. It is not good wine, but it will do. James says nothing as they drink, but his eyes rest on William’s face. He seems to be reaching a decision, and William’s heart speeds. He can guess at what James wants. He thinks he is ready. He hopes James will be gentle. When they have both drunk two measures, James stands up and William hastens to follow him. He feels the eyes of the few remaining diners on his back as they walk out, but he tries not to care. They will soon be gone from this place, from this city.

He follows James up the stairs, his strong thighs, his arse, filling his vision. His heart beating wildly. The day has begun to draw in and the staircase is dim.

James does not wait for him at the door but steps in and hangs his hat and coat. The fire is banked and he takes up the poker to stir it back to life. The air is chilly and damp, but James says: “Take off your coat. Take off your waistcoat. Don’t you wish to see your fine shirt?”

“Yes. Of course.” William’s hands tremble slightly as he moves to comply. He takes off his outer clothes and stands before the fire, before James slouched in the armchair. He runs his fingers down the embroidery. His own clothes, his out-in-the-world clothes, are plain, but he is used to finer things, and it is soothing to once again wear something beautiful. How had James guessed at that?

James looks at him and he looks at James. He can feel a tentative smile on his face. James holds out his hand and William steps forward to take it. James tugs until William is standing between his parted thighs. He is aroused and he can see that James is too. The room is dim, but night has not yet fallen and the sounds of the busy inn are to be heard. What they are about to do is a terrible risk, but he knows they will do it, risk or no. He takes another step, so his thighs are pressed up against James’. “Yes,” he says, although James has not asked in words. “Yes.”

James leans forward and rests his head, turned to the side, against William’s belly. William pushes his hand into his coarse short hair. “Billy,” says James, and they remain like that for a long moment, until James rouses himself and leans back, taking William’s hand once again.

“Come, James,” says William, stepping back and tugging James to stand, “come now.” He sits on the bed and leans down to take off his shoes and stockings. James sits next to him and does the same. William stands and walks over to the chest where he has placed his clothes. He digs among their folds and closes his hand on the small bottle he brought with him when he fled the house. He has known since then that he wanted this. “Here, James.” He hands it to him and James looks puzzled for a moment. “Fuck, Billy,” he says. William undoes the fastening of his breeches and pushes them down. James is still fully clothed apart from his boots and stockings and he sits on the bed watching William, his eyes roaming across William’s body as he disrobes. William’s eyes never leave James’, so he sees them widen and darken as he pushes his drawers down and is standing clad only in the fine shirt, his stiff cock making it stand out from his body. James reaches for the hem of the shirt and raises it, slips his hands to William’s waist and pulls him forward, into the cage of his thighs once again. William places his hands on James’ shoulders, digs his fingers in. He has never before been with a man he has desired as much as he has always desired James, and he is not willing to be entirely submissive to him. He wants to mark James in some way, as he certain James will mark him. He digs his fingers in, hoping to leave the bruises he thinks James may want. James’ breath catches. He steps back and reaches for James’ clothes, unbuttoning his waistcoat, plucking his shirt from his breeches. James shrugs out of his waistcoat and William pulls his shirt over his head. James stands and pushes his breeches and drawers down at once and is naked before William. He tips his chin up as if rejecting any shame at what they are doing. William runs his hands down James’ chest, over the black marks and the raised marks, and James steps closer and pushes William down. He reaches for the bottle that he dropped in the bedclothes and his eyes ask the question his mouth has not asked. William nods, closing his hand round James’ on the bottle, and James crawls onto the bed. William reaches for the hem of his shirt to pull it off, but James stops him and runs his other hand down the embroidered flowers. He grunts in apparent approval, and William takes off the shirt. James takes it from him and places it at the end of the bed. He turns back to William and struggles with the little bottle’s cork. William can hear his harsh breaths and James’ in the quiet room. James pours oil into his hand and reaches for his cock, stiff and red and leaking against his belly. William’s stomach clenches. James has never done this. He sits up and stops James’ hand. “No, James.”

“No?” James is scowling. “No?”

William takes the bottle, pours a measure into his hand and scrambles onto his knees so he can reach behind. James’ face clears as he watches William prepare himself. “Oh,” he says. William’s body resists at first. It has been a long time. James stares at him, so that William has to drop his eyes to escape. Then James, who is crouched on his haunches, reaches his hand between William’s legs, brushes against William’s hand where he has two fingers inside himself. William nods and withdraws and feels James’ blunt fingers at his hole. He rubs tentatively and then slips one finger in. It is quite, quite different from his own hand and he gasps as James pushes in, his brow creased in concentration. William sinks down on James’ hand, inviting him further, further than he can reach himself, until he reaches that spot, and William bites his lip to keep from crying out and his eyes drop closed and his whole body jerks towards James. “Billy?” He opens his eyes. James is frowning and his hand is still. “Billy?”

“Don’t stop!” William manages, “don’t stop, James.” And James pushes his finger in and smiles, as it were inwardly, as William pants harshly, his body spasming, his cock leaking and jumping.

“Now?” says James, a breathy murmur, and William isn’t really ready but he wants this and he knows he won’t last much longer and he wants to come with James inside him. He turns and drops his hands to the bed and behind him he can hear the slick sound of James’ hand on his cock and then he feels it, pushing at his arse and he pushes back and feels himself opening to James and he draws a great shuddering breath and James slides further in and William gasps at the slight pain and invasion and James stills, so William pushes back harder, accepting, and James surges forward. “Christ, Billy,” he gasps, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” His hands are on William’s hips, clinging on, leaving marks, and then he reaches for William’s cock and strokes him firmly with his slick hand and William can feel it build and build and build, James’ hips slapping against his arse and he brings his hand to his mouth and bites at a knuckle to smother his shout as he comes, his arse clenching around James and he feels James spend inside him with a groan and he falls over his back and William can no longer hold himself up and he collapses with James over him and James pants: “Fuck, Billy” and moves off him and his cock slips out and William feels his seed trickle out of him and he can’t move, can only lie panting, his breaths a counterpoint to James’.

At last, he rouses himself enough to get off the bed. James stares as he stands cleaning himself. He returns with a washcloth, wincing a little.

“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“I can see that you are hurt.”

“Well, yes. It is a long time, since …”

“I do not wish to know.” James is brusque.

“Of course not. I would not …” He pushes James’ shoulder so he is on his back, and cleans him.

James catches his wrist. “Thank you, Billy,” he says.

However much he wants, needs James in his bed, William wishes he were alone now. He does not want to talk about what they have done. He wants to put himself to rights without James’ intense scrutiny. And James seems to understand, getting up abruptly and pulling on his clothes. It is not very late and there will be people about, on the stairs, in the hallway. Every time James leaves this room they risk so much, and yet neither of them knows how to be cautious.

William sits on the bed watching James dress. He lifts a hand, tentative, and touches James’ sleeve. “I don’t wish I were a woman, James,” he says.

James tips William’s chin up and bends towards him. “Nor do I,” he says.

THE END


End file.
